But, Where Did You Go?
by toreax
Summary: Matthew isn't sure if he's forgetting, or if Gilbert is disappearing.


It isn't the words. It's not the smile, the soft quirk of lips biting against a wolfish bare of teeth.  
It really isn't any of that.  
When he laughs aloud, it's okay. It's okay.  
No one notices.

A part of him wants this to happen. As soon as he leaves, it seems he's already at home, cradling a drink, sifting through paperwork, and anything between the meeting room – his brother, his fathers', everyone – plays through his mind while Kumajirou stuffs his nose into the crook of his elbow.

This part of him that wants to happen, he isn't sure where it came from. He could stay still, wait. Or he could let it go, or he could…address it, but that will never happen. God, no, he thinks – tells – himself. _God_, no.

There's a bill he has to look over. New equipment is being built for train jumpers. Kumajirou curls next to him and sleeps.

Five o'clock, he wakes up, sweating. He calls Francis.

"Bit busy, hm?" Francis says. "If I recall, you're six hours behind me. And, what does that say about you?"

"I always wake up this early," Matthew says.

"You've never been an early bird." There's a pause, some muffled conversation, and Francis says, "Dear, I have to get back to work – damned meeting. Call me again at, say, seven?"

"I have somewhere to go tonight," he says. "Um. Sorry."

"It's alright. I'll phone you sometime this week. Get some sleep, would you? Every time I see you, you look like you haven't a wink of it! Goodbye!"

He gets half-way through a parting before Francis clicks away.

"Maybe I should – we should – go camping? Or, maybe visit Al? He'd like that, wouldn't he?"

Kumajirou briefly squints his eyes before saying, "Right. Sure."

Matthew waves a hand through the puff of smoke gathering around him. He takes another drag. "Yeah. I think you're right." He blows. "Camping, then?"

"Your birthday is in three days."

"Oh." He checks his watch, thinks about checking his calendar. "Completely slipped my mind."

He supposes it slipped his mind. It's rare when that happens, but it doesn't surprise him much; there's a lot to remember these days, when it's all foreign politics that didn't always have to do with quick war. As quick as it can be.

Another meeting wisps by. Another year, another meeting amongst the countless. He sees him again, and the grin, but couldn't really hear his voice. Not over Alfred yelling about poverty relations that, quite frankly, don't have anything to do with him. He should probably say hi, but last time that didn't go well. It's never gone well.

He hadn't talked to him in about two years…Two years? Yes. Two years is a blink of an eye for all of them, but two years ago had been…two _years_. Has it really been that long? It still hurts.

He ends up going camping four months later. Autumn piles in more snow for him to trudge through, but it's comforting. It reminds him of when he was a child, before Francis.

He wakes at three-thirty this time, sweating, panting, and wondering if there's someone outside his tent that has his heart pounding behind his eyes. Wind whistles through the trees, brushes the willowy walls of his tent. Kumajirou's white fur catches his eye, and he almost shouts.

He doesn't, though. Distantly, in his dream, it reminds him of something. He will never quite place it.

Alfred has a meeting in Berlin and Matthew comes along at Alfred's inquiry because he surely doesn't mind being pampered by Feliciano with homemade dinner. Berlin is still beautiful, open, and the trees are strung with lights as Christmas creeps closer.

Alfred still has all eyes. After the meeting, he and Ludwig through the door and it's clear Alfred has already drained Ludwig, and anyone he'd come into contact with, of energy.

Feliciano takes no time to chatter about the holiday with Alfred. Matthew turns to Ludwig and asks, "Is Gilbert downstairs?"

_Gilbert_ fills his mouth – it's foreign. He can almost hear him chiding Matthew. _Gil, dumbass. Gil_.

Ludwig's fork hangs in the air midbite, brows drawing together, deepening the worry line between his brows. "Gilbert?" He says the name slowly.

Matthew wonders if he hadn't been loud enough. "Gilbert," he says.

Ludwig lowers his fork, tipping his chin up. He looks at his spaghetti then looks back up. "Oh. Gilbert? I can't be sure..." He clears his throat, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and stands. "I'll go check on him."

He leaves the basement door open behind him. Matthew watches him walk down the stairs. The width of his shoulders fill the doorway.

"That pub down the street is still open, right?" Alfred asks.

Feliciano nods quickly, shoving a spoonful of tomato sauce in his mouth. "Yeah! We can go later if you want. Luddy, can we go–"

He notices Ludwig is gone. Matthew points to the basement door.

Feliciano cocks his head. "What's he doing down there?"

"Checking for Gilbert," Matthew says.

"Gilbert?"

"Yes."

"Oh…kay? Alright**.**" Feliciano's brows furrow, just like Ludwig's, before smoothing out. He straightens in his chair. "Alfred, maybe we can visit a different pub tonight? I made friends with the pretty new bartender, and I think we should say hello!"

Ludwig comes back upstairs and closes the door. Sits down. Matthew waits for the story but Ludwig doesn't say a word. He asks.

"He must be out," Ludwig says. "I haven't seen him in a while, I just realized. He must be bothering Roderich again, or is staying with Francis. You know how he is." He pauses, look at Matthew strangely. "I didn't know you know my brother. Gilbert. Yes, Gilbert."

Matthew's stomach tightens, but he breathes through it until he cracks a small smile. "Oh, I just spoke to him a few times during the world meetings. We hardly know each other."

Seven o'clock, he wakes up, screaming.

There's something in the corner of his room. He swears it. There's an outline of a person, broad-shouldered – a man – and he's completely dark, illuminated by the silver rays of moon painting through the window. He's coming closer, and Matthew feels his heart leap into his throat, and he grabs his gun from under his pillow and points.

The person's gone. His finger strains against the trigger. Sweat dribbles down his temple.

"Hello?"

No answer. There's stomping climbing up the stairs, and Kumajirou's nose pushes the door wide open.

"Dear, my apologies but I'm very busy right now. I'm on my way to Limousin and I simply _can't_ miss this meeting."

"I just wanted to ask you if you wanted to come visit soon. The tulip festival is coming up, and Lars can't come, so I was wondering–"

"Matthew, my dear, I'm _really_ sorry, but I have to go!" More people raise their voices on the other line, and Matthew can imagine Francis holding a finger up, holding his breath until they hold theirs. "Matthew, my schedule is overflowing, I can hardly keep it straight! Our leaders are meeting soon, around December, correct? Yes, December!"

"That's in eight months–"

"Dear, I can hardly think right now, my mind is whirling! I'm trying to remember something I was supposed to do – perhaps it was the four o'clock seminar with Monsieur Burrell yesterday. But I went to that and –"

The phone clicks off.

It's beginning to hurt again, thinking about him. It'd been hard at first, then suddenly it was okay, and now it's flooded back and plagues him until he smokes a pack in a sitting – something he hasn't done in years – and hiding in the corner of Lar's balcony.

He thinks about going camping again, maybe clear his mind. Perhaps he can go out and try to catch someone's attention and stay the night at their place.

This night he lays on the couch for what seems like hours. It turns out to be hours, because he watches the remnants of dusk disappear and dawn roll into a soft glow in the sky. Then his eyes flick to his phone when it goes off with junk mail. It's six thirty-two in the morning.

Alfred has to pick Arthur up from the airport, and Matthew is at the train station as soon as he blinks at Alfred's dusty radio on the kitchen counter.

The spring air warms his hands as he sits on a corroded bench. And, as soon as he blinks down at his hands, he's halfway to the ledge of the train tracks. A few high school boys kick at a bug writhing on the ground behind him. The woman dressed in a smart pencil dress taps at her phone. The tunnel hums from the oncoming train.

He blinks.

The tracks are rattling underneath his feet. People are shouting. Gilbert sneers something from above and grabs his hood, yanking him back up with his fingers locked around his arm. Matthew's scampering feet find purchase on the ground before his knees give out and they fall to the concrete.

He lies on his back for what seems like years. Gilbert lets go of him and leans back on his arms, shaking so badly his elbows jitter back and forth like a tightly-screwed guitar string. He's sweating, too, covering his forehead and neck like a sheer blanket, disappearing below his jacket's collar.

"Sorry," Matthew says quietly.

People are standing around them. One of the high school boys bursts into tears. Gilbert raises an arm and waves them off, like a weak shrug. He thinks the woman in dress is going to call the police, but Gilbert does his half-hiss thing and she backs away; the boys seem to have the same idea and follow her.

"That was fucking stupid," Gilbert pants. Matthew doesn't know what to say, so he lets Gilbert take in gulps of air, slowly but surely calming down.

"You didn't even jump that far in," Gilbert says.

"Yeah, I know," Matthew says.

Gilbert is still breathing heavily. He closes his eyes, tips his head back, then hunches forward to run his sweaty hands over his thighs. He gets to his feet. Matthew feels stupid sitting there, on the subway ground, expecting something to happen.

"I've got to go," Gilbert says.

Matthew quickly asks, "Where have you been?"

"It doesn't matter," Gilbert says through gritted teeth. He looks away and runs a hand through his hair. "I can't believe you did that."

"I really am sorry."

Gilbert throws his hands up. "Stop apologizing!"

They fall into silence. Any other day they'd laugh; Matthew apologized way too much, and they used to joke about it.

Matthew tries to find words, but can't. Gilbert stares at the ground. Matthew does the same.

"Just don't do it again," Gilbert says through gritted teeth. Matthew closes his eyes, shaking his head. He wants to cry.

When he looks back, Gilbert is gone.

He starts laughing again, to himself. Subtly. In moments of silence, or when he thinks he sees Gilbert is in his room. He's sure he sees him, but he's never there. Especially not when he asks his empty room.

Two-fourteen, he wakes with tears in his eyes. That only lasts for a moment. He's starting to think these dreams are bullshit.

Two-twenty-nine, he goes downstairs and finds the first note. It's crumpled, like someone smoothed out the paper. The loops through the words are familiar, but suddenly he doesn't remember. He doesn't remember anything, and he isn't quite sure who wrote the note.

It says this: _Remember me_.

"I just can't quite place it," Francis says through the phone. "Antonio and I were chatting, and he said the same – something's missing. I thought I must have forgotten my wallet or lost my bills, but it's not that! You must feel the same, yes?"

"Yes, I do," Matthew says. He stops, then adds, "Sometimes."

"Maybe it had to do with the train scare," Francis says offhandedly. Matthew stays quiet, and Francis continues quickly: "But, I am sure it has nothing to do with it. And, dear…I'll be over tomorrow, alright? Miss me no more, and I'll surely continue missing you."

He's not at the meeting – not sure who, but he's not there.

The entire time he's wound up at the shoulders as each nation, one by one, gives presentation**s**, lasting day to day to day before it finally ends, and he decides to go out.

Elizabeta is at the bar, swallowing down more beer than Matthew has ever seen Ludwig consume. He sits next to her, hoping she recognizes him.

"I'm not interested," she says when he pulls out the stool next to her.

"Oh, um. Sorry, Ms. Hungary," he says. "That's not really why I'm sitting here."

She looks him over, pursing her lips. "You're a nation?"

"Canada, miss."

"Oh! Oh, my apologies. I hadn't meant to offend you."

"You didn't," he says honestly. "No need to worry. I saw you and you looked like you would like some company."

She's probably heard it a million times before, especially in a bar like this, but she smiles. Her smiles have always been kind, almost like Katya's but not quite. It doesn't reach her eyes, where red veins seep like streams to her irises. He hadn't noticed until the bartender switched the red hue of lights to orange.

"Are you okay? If I may ask," he says.

"I'm fine," she says. "The meetings just tire me."

"Roderich didn't attend. Did he stay home?"

She combs fingers through her hair, staring forward, before taking another sip of her beer. Her nose pinches as she swallows. "Yes, he did."

"Business?"

"You can say that," she says. She glances to him. "Weren't you at Oktoberfest last year?"

"Yes."

"I hardly remembered." She takes another sip. "I hate forgetting things."

The bartender whisks by, asks if he wants a drink. He says no.

"You forgot something important, didn't you?" he asks.

She looks at him strangely. "I suppose. It's a silly thing, really. Roderich and I were talking about it, how we're both forgetting something."

"Germany said the same thing. I spoke with him on the phone, to see how Gilbert was doing."

"Gilbert." She takes another sip, absently. "That name sounds familiar."

"You're _kidding_."

"Hell, no, I'm not! You really think this is going to stop me?"

A smile spreads across Matthew's lips, his face, completely and utterly helpless to stop it. Gilbert reaches into his tent and grabs ahold of Matthew's sleeve and pulls him out. The sun stains stains his skin orange.

"It's only six in the morning!" Matthew says, though sleep had already evaded him as soon as Gilbert's heavy-booted footsteps stomped through the trees.

"The sun's up, and that means we're going swimming," Gilbert says, and takes Matthew's shirt off, then his own. They shed their clothes and sprint to the lake, flying through the air before they hit the blue water.

And then they swim. And laugh. Gilbert's so pale he almost fades into the sky when Matthew looks up at him.

Night falls and Gilbert lays next to him, over his sleeping bag while Matthew stays underneath. There's quiet and peace and the trees dance in Ottawa's warm summer air.

"Sometimes I'm sure you're there, and you must be," Matthew says. "But then you're suddenly not. You're nowhere."

"You make it scarier than it sounds," Gilbert says, waving a hand before his arm flops back to the sleeping bag. His forehead is damp with sweat, like every time Matthew remembers seeing him. Back at the train station, he'd been sweating. He's sure of it.

"It's not scary. It's…" Matthew isn't sure how to finish.

Gilbert doesn't, either, and he shows that by curling his arm underneath their pillow, propping his head up so Matthew is unable to see his eyes.

"I didn't want to tell you," Gilbert says, quietly, much, much later.

Matthew smiles.

Next week at nine o'clock, he wakes slowly. It's three days from his birthday.

Sitting up, he glances out the windows, where the sun filtered through, pinching his eyes. His hand goes to his chest, pressing his palm flat to the steady beat of his heart.

He cries, and can't quite remember why.


End file.
